The Cruellest Month
by EloiseTwo
Summary: Several days in April. From all perspectives. “Transitions” are happening, “second sight” is needed, and “bogey man” is everyone’s inner turmoil.
1. Chapter 1

**The Cruellest Month**

_April is the cruellest month, breeding_

_Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing_

_Memory and desire, stirring_

_Dull roots with spring rain._

—T.S. Eliot "The Waste Land"

**Summary: **Several days in April. From all perspectives. "Transitions" are happening, "second sight" is needed, and "bogey man" is everyone's inner turmoil.

**Disclaimer:** If they were mine, I wouldn't do this to them! I am only borrowing the guys for a while to be returned unharmed, dry-cleaned, and, hopefully, happier!

xxxxxx

Vivian Johnson collapsed on the road, by the car, flat on the rain-sleeked ground, her eyes opened and pained, her mouth trying to inhale the suddenly uncooperative air.

It was late and dark, it was raining, but the missing Stephanie Healy was found alive and relatively unharmed, the culpable party was apprehended, and some measure of justice was sure to be done. All in all, not a bad day's work that would have normally called for a celebration.

They needed it, all of them. The past few cases have been exhausting and, in many ways, discouraging. A good, kindhearted woman taking care of someone else's children all her life, killed by her addict brother. A group of young women - practically children - coming here for a chance at a better life only to find hell and slavery. A sad, desperate man, trying to fix past mistakes and resurrect his dead son by bonding with an equally lonely boy, ending up trying to shoot his brains out in front of the child. . . .

They needed a good one, a hopeful one, a respite from the depths of human despair. And this latest offered some genuine hope. A woman trapped in a man's body, taking a risk of alienating those around her, taking a chance on some kind of affection, trying to reconnect with people who mattered. She may have gotten her opportunity now. They have found her in time, and she just may have saved her ex and her kids from an abusive influence in their lives. Sometimes things did work out for the best.

And then Vivian collapsed.

_Hypertrophic cardiomyopathy_. Say that three times fast. Or not at all. . . . Jack gripped Vivian's hand, squeezing it gently after every road bump the ambulance hit. They were 7 minutes out, the EMT said. 7 minutest out of the safety zone - the hospital, their destination - where Viv would be taken care of and, hopefully, made better. 7 minutes out and one month in. One month, she said. One month ago she has been diagnosed with this unpronounceable and incomprehensible disease of the heart. A month during which she came to work, went about her business, chased suspects, spent long hours wading through evidence and clues, and not informing a single soul about her condition. Not informing _him_.

They wheeled her into the ER, pushing Jack out of the way, telling him to take a seat, and someone will come and talk to him as soon as . . . and does he know her family? . . . and who can they contact? . . .

xxxxxx

They gathered in a large, desolate-looking waiting area: Jack, still shell-shocked and lost; Danny, pacing the floor, keeping fear at bay by the constant motion; Sam, tired and looking guilty for some reason. Danny and Sam drove up right behind the ambulance, and Jack knew that Martin was on his way from New York right now, as well as Marcus Johnson.

Jack set, shielding his eyes against the harsh, iridescent light, his head swimming, his thoughts random and in a whirl. Thing were happening too fast. Spinning out of control and out of reason. It seemed like lately it was one crushing revelation after another. Just when he thought he's gotten a hold of something solid and stationary in his life, something else happened to send him right back into the tailspin.

Vivian knew for a month and she didn't tell him. She put herself at risk. Hell, she may have put others at risk! What if Martin, or Danny, or Sam needed a back up any time during that month, and she had collapsed then? . . . Jack dismissed the anger for what it really was: fear and pain. Fear for Viv, pain of not being trusted. He felt wounded. He felt like he deserved to know. Not as her boss, but as a long-standing friend - someone whom she should have been able to open up to.

Jack was fully aware that, all things considered, this sense of hurt was childish, petulant, and unworthy of him. He also knew without a doubt that, had the situation been reversed, he would have done the same thing. He would not have told anyone, either. The sense of self-preservation, fear, and the desire to avoid any kind of solicitation or pity would have prompted him to silence just like they prompted Viv.

And yet, the fact that she didn't confide her troubles grated on him. Or may be it was just exhaustion.

Jack shifted in his seat, pulling the drenched coat all around his frame in useless attempt to extract some warmth out of a limp, damp cloth. His mind drifted to that other recent revelation of things not told: Sam and Martin. Martin and Sam. He noticed that this was how he now always thought of them: as a unit, as one entity.

When did this happen? Jack didn't ask himself where. He knew where: right under his nose, that's where. And it wasn't even fair to fault either of them for going for it, or for not informing him. He had no claim on Sam. He let her go for another chance with his wife a long time ago, and, truth be told, because it was easier. Because what had started out as a comfort and a destruction, became too much of that, too complicated, and too involved.

And it wasn't as if she set around for these past several years waiting for him to change his mind. He knew she dated: some doctor in Tribecca, a detective they all worked with on a case. . . . They were there, on the periphery of Jack's knowledge, to be brought up occasionally in an unguardedly playful conversation. . . . As if they weren't real. He wondered briefly if Maria ever seemed real to Sam.

Martin was different. How, Jack couldn't have explained, but he was. And he was right there, every day, a person, even a friend, not someone Jack just heard about or met on occasion. Plus, he was Martin: dependable, solid, kind, eternally optimistic. Someone, who could give Sam what she deserved: undivided attention and unquestioned loyalty.

Jack liked this feeling even less than he liked his anger toward Vivian. His sense of fairness made it impossible to condone. And it wasn't as if he even contemplated starting something with Sam again. He said as much to Maria's barracuda lawyer, and he even believed at the time that he meant it. The problem was that, as stupid as it sounded, he somehow, in the back of his mind trusted that Sam would always be there. Not exactly available at a drop of a hat, but there, for some distant, uncomplicated future. Jack wondered at this conviction. Why would he think that? Why would he ever think that a young, beautiful, accomplished, and independent woman would sit there, like a difficult but highly recommended book on a top shelf waiting to be picked up and read at some later, leisurely time? It was an irrational feeling, and it belittled both of them somehow.

He stole a glance at her. She was muttering something under her breath, trying to warm her hands on a paper cup of hot and tasteless hospital coffee. Once upon a time Jack was able to read Sam's expressions and body language. He realized with a shock that this was no longer the case. He didn't have a clue what she was thinking or feeling.

He shook his head forcefully. He needed to snap out of this. Vivian was not out of the woods yet, and who knows what lay ahead for her with that condition. His complicated and wounded feelings would have to wait for the more appropriate time and place. Jack chuckled at his own state of mind, a little too obviously, because both Danny and Sam looked at him in surprise. Danny with concern, probably afraid that Jack was finally cracking up, and Samantha with more guarded apprehension. He shook his head at them in a reassuring way and got up, taking the damp coat off. No reason to get pneumonia on top of everything else.

xxxxxxx

Sam watched Jack for a while, out of the corner of her eye. He bewildered her so. He looked tired, positively ragged these days, but it wasn't that. It was the way she noticed him looking at her every now and then: a quizzical expression, filled with some unreadable emotion, as if challenging her to do or say something. Say what? Do what? She once thought they could communicate silently, but now she wondered if that was just an illusion. Just another lie she told herself. She certainly didn't get his communication now. So she watched him rest his head on the back of an uncomfortable chair and try to sleep. . . .

They should all try to sleep. Vivian was transported to the ICU. An imposing and impersonal doctor came and told them she was out of the immediate danger, but they would keep her for observation and determination for a while yet. More specific details would be given to the immediate family.

They decided to wait for Marcus and Martin to arrive. Sleep, that only a moment ago seemed like such a good idea, was suddenly not an option. Danny kept pacing. Sam wondered idly why it didn't annoy her, but instead infused her with comfort. May be it was because Danny's movements were less erratic and more like a well-oiled pendulum: rhythmic, crisp, and timed evenly.

Yep, sleep was definitely gone. She took out her cell phone: no missed calls, no messages, five last incomings all from the same number. Martin. Martin, who called 15 minutes ago. He was stuck in Lincoln tunnel earlier, his voice edgy and clipped, full of impatience to get here. Sam smiled faintly: she could see him cursing in that car. It was somehow always slightly shocking to hear Martin use those words. He was so well-bread that it didn't seem possible he would even know them.

Martin. She alternated between bouts of overwhelming tenderness and rage when she thought about him these days. There didn't seem to be a middle anymore. When did they get there, she wondered? And how? It was her fault, undoubtedly, but there was no point in canvassing the issue. If she could change something, if she even knew what and how to change, she would have. She wanted to be happy, she thought she took all the right steps toward that elusive state, and sometimes she even believed she was. And then it would desert her. Was that a cosmic joke or an old wives' tale: that impossible "happy" that you were supposed to be, if only you were a good girl and did what you were intended to do? But heaven help you if you didn't fit the mold.

They didn't even make love anymore. Oh, they still slept together, but it was something expected, almost ritualistic, as if they feared that if they took a break one night, they would never find a way into each other's arms again. And it was a shame, because it used to be lovely - something to hold on to, something comforting and reassuring. But then they could always comfort each other, even before they got involved. If this thing between them could be reduced to just that - comfort - they would both be happier. Or Sam would. . . . Or wouldn't. . . . God, it was impossible to sort out what she felt or wanted anymore! She would have even feared she was pregnant, if she weren't so absolutely assured of the contrary, because her condition felt hormonal. At least emotionally so. She saw herself get more and more belligerent and frustrated, and she took it out on Martin. On Martin with his idealistic and simplified view of a relationship and his often too-straightforward expectations. On Martin with his wounded eyes and exasperating need to have things neat, and clear, and out in the open.

Sam sighed and decided she better get some sleep. Thinking about this will only lead to more unhappiness. And she had quite enough, what with the feeling of being indirectly responsible for Viv's current condition. Not that Sam thought she could have prevented this , but at least she felt she could have kept a better eye on Vivian, safeguarded her somehow, talked her out of working so hard or going out into the field. She was, after all, the only one who knew. She should have done something, and never mind that Vivian would not have welcomed the action. "Story of my life," Sam thought, "doing either too much or not enough."

xxxxxx

Danny paced the waiting area. Eight steps north, eight steps south, and, if he felt particularly adventurous, there were five additional steps diagonally, toward the distressed vending machine. The pacing was methodical and the thoughts swung with it. Eight steps north: _Vivian is seriously ill and may die_. Eight steps south: _how did I not notice this?_ Five steps diagonally: _can't stand hospitals_.

He stopped for a second, contemplating the vending machine. Stale potato chips, dehydrated chocolate bars, evil-looking generic brand soda cans. Danny briefly wondered at the wisdom of selling this potentially health-threatening stuff at a hospital. Oh, well, at least the emergency room was near.

Eight steps north: _of course he didn't notice_. The truth was that lately he was happy. Acutely happy with the kind of elation that can, at its sharpest and at least for a while, become all-absorbing.

A girl next door, of all things, and never mind the cliche! A certain Audrey Mills moved in down the hall and into his heart in February and promptly occupied his entire existence. Not that his work suffered. . . . Much. He concentrated, he did his due diligence, but, for the first time in a very long time, his work finally ended where his real life began.

Eight steps south: _was he so selfish that he missed all the signs?_ Danny tried to recall if he had seen Vivan in pain or discomfort. Did he just ignore it? Did he put it down to tiredness? No. He noticed. Of course he noticed, and long before she had any diagnosis to share. The thing was that one just didn't pry with Vivian. If she didn't want something known, you couldn't get it out of her.

Eight steps north: _bullshit_. He should have asked. He should have insisted. He should have grabbed her by the elbow and dragged her to the nearest doctor months ago. Way back in late January, when he fist noticed that she wasn't quite herself.

Five steps diagonally: _coffee would be good right about now. . . . Who the hell ate this stuff? This vending machine is a health code violation waiting to happen! . . ._ His reflection looked distorted and troubled in the slightly curved surface of it. Danny ran a hand through his damp hair in an unsuccessful attempt to tame it. It was getting longish in the back, but Audrey said that she loved it that way, so he was putting off a trip to the barber.

Five steps diagonally, back: _Jack seems to be asleep_. Then again, he may be just sitting with his eyes closed. Danny certainly wanted to close his. It would be good not to see the ugly, pale-green walls and dusty pink plastic chairs. Whoever decided that those were good colors for a hospital was in dire need of some high-impact drugs. The effect was depressing rather than soothing, which undoubtedly was the decorator's aim. The overwhelming paleness, like a washed-out hope. People kill themselves in much less opressive environments.

Eight steps south: _Sit down, close your eyes, may be you can pretend you are somewhere else._ Yeah, right. Like the sterilized hospital smell would let _that _happen. Danny physically felt the odor stick to the inside of his nostrils and lodge itself into his skin. Hospital smell. Institutional smell. . . . Close his eyes and he is 14 again, being led down the narrow corridor of his first group home, air thick with remnants of thousands of overcooked meals, cheap cleaning products, and not quite dry laundry. Or he is 16, and in a hospital bed, sharing a room with 3 other people. And he can't breathe, because the bandages on his chest and stomach, covering the freshly stapled knife wounds, are too tight, and he is afraid to press the button for the nurse, because the big, menacing guy recovering from a gunshot on a bed next to his had just fallen asleep and hates to be disturbed. So 16-year-old Danny is breathing through his nose, trying not to involve his chest too much, and not inhale the sickening mixture of chlorine and rubbing alcohol.

Five steps north:_ Sam looks like she is about to drop off_. Clearly hospital coffee didn't help. She looked so distressed earlier. At least Martin will be here soon. He'll look after her. . . . May be. As absorbed as Danny was with his own personal life, he couldn't help but notice that not all was well between these two. That will have to wait, though. Vivian needed all his attention now.

Five steps diagonally: _May he should pray_. There bound to be a chapel somewhere on the premises. Thing was, he forgot how. That is, he could remember some verses, but the true nature of a prayer, that intimate contact with whatever deity, was out of reach. Memory of Father Orlando came to him. "You can always talk to God, Danny. He hears the intent, not the words." It was easy to believe this from someone like Father Orlando - a truly spiritual man who never said anything he didn't mean. But here, in this impersonal place, at some makeshift house of worship, surrounded by generic paraphernalia of faith, it was hard to summon any meaning or intent. Or any belief in a deity that would allow someone like Vivian to go through something like this.

Five steps diagonally, back: _He really should stop pacing. It seems to annoy Sam. _She's been following his movements with her eyes, but the look in those eyes told him she wasn't seeing him so much as she was lost in her own thoughts. She took out her phone, but didn't dial it, just stared at the screen. Danny felt in his coat pocket for his own cell. He restrained the desire to call Audrey yet again. It was late, he already spoken to her three times tonight. She had a review with an advisor tomorrow. Graduate school was tough enough without dealing with boyfriend crises.

Eight steps north: _Boyfriend._ The once abhorrent word. It rolled so easily off his tongue now. Danny smiled quietly. And stopped, feeling guilty. _Vivian_. There's nothing to smile about. Audrey came into his mind again, shaking her head and saying in that impish tone of hers: "Bon voyage on your guilt trip!" But he did feel guilty. Happiness is all well and good, but he allowed every other connection in his life to lapse, he hoarded it like a hard-won prize, not sharing with anyone. He wondered if people around him even knew. They probably noticed something. It was hard not to notice that he ran out of the office as soon as he could now, or that he stopped coming in on weekends, unless absolutely required; that he had a smile on his face a lot. They probably noticed the same way he noticed little things between Martin and Sam, or Vivian not being herself lately, or Jack tethering on a brink of something. That was the problem with all of them: they loved each other, they cared, but they never did share much. Unless absolutely necessary.

Eight steps south: _Here's a prayer: God, please, let her be all right. Let her pull through, and I promise, I will change things. I will try to be more open, I will not shrink back from asking questions, I will let my friends know that I care, even if they know it already._ "Don't bargain with God, Danny," he heard Father Orlando in his head, "it never works, and you'll never follow through anyway." _Great. I am hearing voices. It's that damn hospital. I swear they spike their ventilation system with something. _

Five steps diagonally: _I really should stop this_. _One more trip and that vending machine crap will start looking good to me. I need Martin here. Watching him eat inedible things always stops me from doing the same. _He checked his phone one more time. Text message. "Call me. Whenever. Love you." Audrey. Her not-so-subtle way of cheering him up and letting him know that she won't be studying or sleeping anyway, so he might as well call. Danny's heart contracted in love and gratitude. He would go outside, fill his lungs with damp, chlorine-free night, and talk to her about Vivian. This would be his form of prayer.


	2. Chapter 2

**The Cruellest Month**

_April is the cruellest month, breeding_

_Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing_

_Memory and desire, stirring_

_Dull roots with spring rain._

—T.S. Eliot "The Waste Land"

**Summary: **Several days in April. From all perspectives. "Transitions" are happening, "second sight" is needed, and "bogey man" is everyone's inner turmoil.

**Disclaimer:** If they were mine, I wouldn't do this to them! I am only borrowing the guys for a while to be returned unharmed, dry-cleaned, and, hopefully, happier!

**Author's Note: **First and foremost, thank you to all amazing people who reviewd. I can't tell you how much it means to me. 

Second, I apologize for the utter lack of action. No plot what so ever, but the inner life is jumping! I hope. 

Anmodo, the Tort reference is for you. You started it! 

xxxxxxx

Martin sat in his chair. Slouched in it, more likely. He loved those office chairs, with their comfortably-adjustable backs and tiny wheels that skidded all the way across the office, making him feel like a kid again.

It was still early: not that many people around to see him skid from desk to desk, from computer to computer. His own PC crashed irrevocably late last night. Too late for his SOS to go down the tech support pipeline and reach the right people. The reply was "we get to it as soon as possible," which basically meant anything from "this afternoon" to "early next Friday."

Minus computer aggravation, Martin liked being here early. It was peaceful, restful, and benign, unlike his outside life that lately has gotten to resemble dancing in a mine field. A mine field to which he didn't have a map.

It wasn't just that he and Sam were fighting. It was that they were fighting about things he no longer understood. It used to be about this white elephant in the room that Sam refused to name or acknowledge. Elephant called Jack. It used to be that, and, as painful as it had been, at least it was comprehensible. Now, however, it felt as if the elephant has left the room a while ago, but the fights didn't stop, becoming more about the space that remained where the elephant used to be. The space between them that kept filling up with trifles, annoyances, and petty little disagreements - things so small and insignificant as to lose all meaning.

Mornings - if they spent the nights together at all now - have become these rituals of avoidance: silent and deliberate preparing of coffee, carefully dressing in separate rooms, falsely cheerful "see you laters." No more running together down to the park and back, no more joking about his breakfast choices, no more mock fighting about who gets the Sports Section first. . . . A slow and unmistakable disintegration of a once viable relationship.

So, he stayed home last night instead of going yet another round with Sam. She was tired anyway: from worrying about Viv and from the current case - a missing 25-year-old psychic - that was wigging her out more than usual for some reason. He tried to cheer her up a little, but, as so many things were between them these days, it had been the wrong thing. A joke about a psychic not seeing her own disappearance coming caused Sam to blow up at him with sudden and unexpected force. The joke was benign, not born out of callousness or disregard for the missing girl, but a simple attempt to lighten up the mood. Goodness knows, normally Sam was apt to kid about ongoing cases as much as the rest of them. It kept things in perspective and alleviated apprehensive tension. Last night, however, she chose to see it as yet another unforgivable sin to add to the already impressive dossier she was compiling against Martin. . . . Or, at least, that's how it was beginning to feel to him.

Martin sighed and wheeled himself to Vivian's computer. He chose hers, because she was at home, recuperating, and therefore he could use it without being disturbed once the others would arrive. . . . Vivian. He closed his eyes and tried to imagine her at home, in her bathrobe, just lounging about. He couldn't. She was such a quiet but formidable force: self-contained, alert, energetic, purposeful. It was impossible to picture her resting. It was impossible to picture her ill. Oh, he had seen her in her hospital bed, irritated more than pained, but it was such an incongruous site that it didn't register. He would call her later, when it was decent time and he would be sure to not wake her.

He sighed again and switched on the computer. It was getting to be almost 8:30. People were filtering in. Time to get some work done. Martin glanced at the white board with the picture of the current MP. Agnes Deschamps. 25. Psychic. Whatever that meant. No bank records, no credit card records, no Social Security. Forget psychic, this girl had some serious disappearing abilities. He shook his head and started typing furiously.

xxxxxx

Audrey rolled in bed and extended her arm in a habitual gesture, looking for Danny. He was gone. She sat up and sighed: this was the third time in a week she woke up and found him somewhere other than the bed. She knew he had trouble sleeping lately, she knew he worried about his friend and colleague, and that, in a typical Danny fashion, he somehow found a way to blame himself for what happened.

She also knew any arguments to the contrary would be futile. Danny was aware of the unreasonableness of his guilt. He just couldn't conquer it.

He wouldn't admit it, but Audrey felt that somehow, their being happy these past months was at the root of his current doubts. As if he didn't believe, in his heart of hearts, that he deserved to be happy.

She glanced at the clock - 5:15 a.m. - and slid out of bed, wrapping the comforter around herself. Danny was in the kitchen, poring over books, a cup of lethal concoction he so charitably called "coffee" steaming next to him. Law books: his ongoing obsession, the ever accelerating prep for the upcoming New York State Bar exam.

"How are the wild and wacky adventures in Torts?"

Danny lifted his tired eyes and smiled. "Wild and wacky as ever. I am thinking of writing a sequel: 'All a-Tort! A Wild and Wacky Adventure in the Rough Seas of Limiting Liability.' Snappy, no?"

"Rousing." Audrey laughed and poured herself a cup of what was now her legal addictive substance of choice: Danny's coffee. She pulled her own hefty volume and settled next to him at the table. Might as well study some. She wasn't going back to sleep anyway. Persistent squeaky sounds of a crying baby filtered in from next door. Mrs. Kaufman across the hall gave birth to a little girl a month ago, and the entire floor was now treated to the hourly updates on the baby's progress.

Audrey didn't ask Danny why he wasn't sleeping, and he didn't ask her why she got up. They were beyond trivial explanations. They set companionably, drinking dark beverage, each reading their own books, and she secretly marvelled at how fast they have gotten to this stage.

In the past few months, they've settled into a routine of sorts: dinner either at home or at some nearby, cozy place, if Danny wasn't back from work too late. Or they would simply order a quick takeout, if work kept him away for hours. The nights were spent mostly at Danny's. He had a larger bed, and Audrey grew very attached to his hunter-green comforter. It was the color that she would never have normally chosen herself, but grew very fond of now. This happened with a lot of things she associated with Danny. His CD collection, for one: an eclectic mix of Afro-Cuban Jazz, Classic Rock, and a bunch of unexpected, stylistically-diverse choices, like the "Moonlight Lounge" compilation of old hits by Nat King Cole, Dean Martin, and Bobby Daring; or the "Essential Leonard Cohen," that, for some reason, surprised Audrey. It wasn't that she didn't think Danny would like Leonard Cohen, but rather that he'd be aware of who it was.

She snuck it out, and now listened to it - with headphones on - while working off her assistantship at the Columbia University Archives. She also pilfered Danny's entire "Buena Vista" and Ibrahim Ferrer collection. This music was definitely him: electric, sultry, soulful, with deep undercurrents and unexpected rhythms. It was a comfort listening, a way of keeping Danny with her, even when they parted during the day.

Audrey wondered at the things she was discovering about him daily, little things that amounted to a person. He didn't like to shave, for instance. Not on principle, but rather he didn't enjoy the process, and rushed through it often leaving traces of tiny, dark facial hairs. She called it his "7 o'clock shadow," as in 7 a.m. Or the fact that he turned out to be an excellent cook. It was a surprise, since he didn't much care what and when he ate, or seemed to own very few kitchen utensils. When she questioned him about it, he admitted that he didn't enjoy cooking just for himself, but was relishing doing so for the two of them now and again. When time allowed, of course.

Time. Time seemed to be the third person in their relationship. A very present person, and not at all obtrusive. His time away from work proved to be erratic. It annoyed Audrey for a while, because she missed him so much when he was working late hours. And then there was difficulty looking forward to his coming home, since it was often hard to determine when it would happen. She's gotten over it: gotten over the annoyance, not the missing. And not the part where the nature of his work hit home with her, and she began to tremble every instance he was five minutes later than his estimated hour of arrival. Not that she mentioned it to Danny, of course. She didn't want to alarm him, or put him on the defensive. But, with his amazing sixth sense, he knew anyway. So he has taken to calling her every evening, as the working day drew to an end, updating her on the amount of stuff he had left to do, or the likelihood of him making it home and how soon.

Time was the witness and the remedy of their initial awkwardness with each other. Those little, everyday things that usually come up when two people, unused to sharing, start to share some kind of a life. They had such a short grace period to ease into this. They jumped with both feet and landed hard, finding bruises and sprains later on. It didn't matter: time was theirs, after all, to heal the discomfort and smooth the creases. Time, for a change, was a friend, even if an awkward and slow one.

Audrey was revealing things slowly, as well, finding out stuff about herself that she never consciously computed before. Like the fact that she didn't mind sharing a bed with someone. She used to dislike it. Not the sex itself, but what came afterward, when two people with their different sleeping habits and quirks attempted to spend a night in the same bed. In all her previous relationships, she tried to either not stay over or have the guy leave. She was honest about her need to have her bed to herself. It had nothing to do with intimacy or fear. It has been a question of sprawling herself comfortably over the entire surface and kicking her blanket with her feet into any whipped state she liked. She was, by nature, a late and fidgety sleeper. Danny was a light one. But he didn't seem to mind her restlessness, and that very first time they slept together, she simply didn't have the strength to get up and go one door down the hallway to her own apartment and her own bed. It turned out all right: she fell asleep almost immediately, and woke up in the middle of the night finding herself pressed to his warm back in a very comfortable way.

Audrey raised her head and caught Danny looking away from the book, his eyes troubled, his mind miles away. She stroked his hand and he smiled, pulling himself back into this reality with visible effort.

"It's April, you know," she said.

"April?"

"Yes. It's always an unsettling month. Not yet Spring, not quite Winter anymore. It's restless, it wants, it strives for something. It wreaks havoc. People go crazy. All sorts of things happen. . . . But something good usually comes out of it. Something Springy, and warm, and much calmer."

Danny took a sip of coffee and looked at her with some barely contained emotion. "Thank you."

They both knew he wasn't just thanking her for the little pep talk.

xxxxxxxx

Vivian hung up the phone and perched herself on a high stool in her kitchen. Martin really was a sweetie. She smiled a sad remnant of a smile, replaying his hesitant offer to hook her up with his extremely connected father's cardiology expert. Martin's voice, full of concern tempered with embarrassment, was quiet and apologetic. He sounded a little guilty, as if he held himself somehow responsible for what had happened to her. In fact, they all sounded like that.

Danny, inconsolable by her hospital bed, holding her hand and asking a million times if he could do anything, bring her anything, summon somebody. Sam, looking sheepish and grim, hovering by the door, not quite making it into the room. And later, her sad, whispery voice on the phone, trying to sound unconcerned, brave, and cheerful. Vivian guessed that Sam thought this is what she needed. Jack, looking bewildered, as if what happened was some kind of a strike against him, strike he didn't expect. She searched his face for signs of accusation - after all, it was a pretty big thing to keep from your boss, once she got diagnosed. But she couldn't see any. If he felt betrayed, he didn't show it. What was apparent was his exhaustion, emotional as well as physical, and the visible lack of that controlled veneer he usually put on. Of all of them, Jack worried Vivian the most in this situation.

She hated it all. Hated being fussed over, worried about, hated the nervous hush that people assumed now that she was around. And most of all, she hated being ill. It was a strange thing to admit to oneself. After all, who likes being sick? But she truly hated this: how serious and sobering it all was, how it made her reevaluate every step, every decision she ever made or was about to make. The very need for decisions that only several months ago seemed a thing of some distant future.

Like what to do about Reggie. He didn't react well to her illness, and not in a way that she or Marcus expected. He was being belligerent, rude even. She knew it came out of fear and helplessness, but it was one more worry Vivian didn't need right now. And once they would be able to rein him in, there was the issue of a will. As in, what to do in the event of the very real possibility of her dying. The operation she needed was a somewhat risky one. There was no safe, polite, or otherwise deluded way around it. So, what would become of Marcus and Reggie? Would they be able to cope?

And now Marcus was insisting on considering Reggie's future without both of them. If anything, these events brought them close to realization that life was fragile. Funny how trite that sounded and how no one actually grasped this - truly and fully grasped - until faced with the reality of death. One can work in a job that deals with the possibility of dying, like Vivian has been for many ears, but until and unless it hits you directly, there's no processing the basic imminence of it. She put Marcus off, refusing to deal, but she knew he was right. They needed to make provisions for all eventualities, and they needed to be realistic about them. _But I refuse to be happy about it_, Vivian thought petulantly. Petulance was the one luxury she allowed herself a little. Sick people were forgiven for small infringements. After all, she was already denied coffee and chocolate. She had to indulge in something.

She smiled. Not a happy smile, but not the defeated one of several minutes ago. She felt perversely better. Large terry bathrobe; nice, almost stately kitchen with high, white cabinets and sparkling windows; a steaming cup of green tea - not a favorite drink, but it would do; a boisterous, healthy, and basically good son, who was so upset she was ill, he was acting out; a loving and intelligent husband, who never wavered in his care and support; a bunch of friends and colleagues who cared deeply and pestered her with visits and phone calls; and a looming operation with not at all depressing success rate. No, Vivian thought, her prospects weren't so bad, not by a long shot. She felt the irritation and hate dissipate with each sip of the greenish liquid.

xxxxxx

Samantha looked at the woman with marked disfavor. She couldn't have explained clearly where the feeling came from, apart from some natural mistrust in and disinclination toward woman's chosen profession. Claiming psychic powers was one thing, profiting from people's often desperate search for answers in less than reputable quarters was another. But besides that, this whole "voodoo shop" - as Sam dubbed it in her head - was wigging her out. Dark, made unnecessarily mysterious by the musty smell and the deep shelves full of strange merchandise, the new-agey store seemed menacing to her. "Lucebella." Even the name was weird and uninviting. Samantha couldn't imagine coming here for comfort, or hope, or whatever it was people came here seeking.

And then this Rebecca woman was looking at her strangely. As if she could see right through her. As if she knew her deepest secrets and her innermost desires. _Yeah, right._ Sam herself didn't know, so how could this stranger possibly guess? Never mind what she claimed to sense or forebode.

It was a dead end, anyway. Whatever her powers, Rebecca didn't seem to know anything, or be able to help them in any way in their search for her missing business partner and friend Agnes Deschamps. She didn't even know the girl was ill.

Ill. There's a lot of it going around, Sam thought disconsolately. Viv was ill, too, though hopefully not as seriously or as finally as Agnes. Sam wondered what was the use of this supposed gift of second sight if it didn't warn you of impending doom, or help you in any way with such tangible things as money troubles or genetic diseases.

"She may have exaggerated her gift," Rebecca said, as if reading Sam's mind. Sam jumped and looked up sharply. Rebecca continued, choosing to ignore Sam's apparent hostility, "but she was helping people, you know. Helping them grieve, or move on. She made them feel connected to their dead."

_Connected to the dead_. Now _there _was a concept. Especially considering that most people had problems connecting to the living. Connecting to the dead was easy: all you had to do was think about them, remember them, surround yourself with things associated with them. All you had to do was want that connection. The living were trickier. Sometimes no amount of desire or effort could forge an understanding or bridge the gap. And not even psychologists - that other breed of "second sight" professionals - could tell you how to achieve that connection. Especially if you weren't certain of your desires or intentions.

Rebecca kept talking, telling Sam about Agness having a premonition of sorts. Something about a wagon wheel, her grandmother - who, incidentally, also died of the same degenerative disease - and a white bird.

"What does a white bird mean?"

"It means sorrow," said Rebecca. "I guess she had a lot to be sorrowful about."

_No kidding_. That, right there, was it - the source of Sam's annoyance. Those semi-profound statements delivered with meaningful hush. Platitudes dressed to look like prophesies. Samantha took a deep breath. She couldn't stand it in here a moment longer. She needed air, she needed space, even if it was only the pungent New York air and the cramped New York space. She had an impulse to call Martin and talk to him: he usually had a soothing effect on her. But she remembered that they had a fight of sorts last night, and she hasn't spoken to him since. Or, maybe it wasn't a fight at all, but one of their increasingly frequent non-spats, where nothing exactly happens and yet they end up feeling like they just had a blow up.

Sam said good-bye to Rebecca, ignoring her inquiring eyes, and went out on the street without a backward glance.


	3. Chapter 3

**The Cruellest Month**

_April is the cruellest month, breeding_

_Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing_

_Memory and desire, stirring_

_Dull roots with spring rain._

—T.S. Eliot "The Waste Land"

**Summary: **Several days in April. From all perspectives. "Transitions" are happening, "second sight" is needed, and "bogey man" is everyone's inner turmoil.

**Disclaimer:** If they were mine, I wouldn't do this to them! I am only borrowing the guys for a while to be returned unharmed, dry-cleaned, and, hopefully, happier!

**Author's note.**Again, to all the wonderful reviewers: I can't thank****you enough! I was thinking about this story, and it occurs to me that it is just a series of post-eps, and that's why the plot is so elusive. Oh, well, it writes how it writes, and the plot can take a seat in the bleachers! LOL.

xxxxxx

Jack leaned in a relaxed stance, the sun-heated side of the truck supporting his back. It was about an hour before the meeting with one Patrick Conway, the supposed kidnapper of Agnes. It was a sting operation he and Danny put in motion. Conway would be here to sell them a defective RV.

Jack secretly liked sting operations. They made him feel as if he were playing a part. He wouldn't have admitted it to anyone - least of all his team - but he enjoyed the theatrical aspects of it. Of course, not every sting was enjoyable. Some of them were dangerous and did not resemble a play at all. But this one didn't worry Jack too much. They held the upper hand, and he was almost certain that the missing girl was all right.

The sun that heated the car metal also washed the giant concrete parking lot in grayish yellow color. It was like being trapped in an enormous, modernist, abstract painting, the kind Jack once saw at some exhibit Maria dragged him to at the Whitney Museum.

He adjusted his sunglasses and felt a craving for a cigarette. He didn't have one, and maybe it was just as well just as well, but the craving was suddenly sharp and persistent. He was glad to see a dark-colored Yukon pull up at a designated spot. Danny was here.

He got out of the car, and Jack burst out laughing.

"I know this is a sting operation, Danny, but who are you supposed to be disguised as, Richard Simmons?"

Danny flashed him an unconcerned and bright smile, glancing over his ridiculous outfit of beige velour leisure suit topped with an electric blue cap, and then gave Jack a return once-over.

"I am getting _this_ from the guy who inherited his entire wardrobe from Johnny Cash? And, by the way, nice shirt, Jack: my mom used to have a table cloth just like this. It's making me feel nostalgic."

"Funny boy, Danny."

"Seriously, Jack, look where we are: it's a Walmart parking lot in a factory district. Velour suits are practically a must here, and here you are, dressed like Farmer Bob on his first outing to 'them big cities!' All you need is to lose the sunglasses and add a straw hat, and I can practically hear the 'Green Acres' theme song follow you around. Which one of us do you think is going to stick out?"

Jack laughed and shook his head.

"Neither. No one looks at anyone in this place. I sat here for a while, so I am in a position to know. But I give you the props for thinking this through."

Danny smiled and walked back to his car, his walk springy, almost insolent, and Jack thought that he would probably stick out anywhere, no matter what he was wearing.

xxxxx.

It was over quickly. Conway didn't turn out to be quite the hardened criminal they expected, though his other, lesser crimes were probably numerous. Not their concern: as far as this case went, he was just a father, trying to reconcile with his estranged daughter and help her in any way he could. Agnes - or Margaret - was safe. As safe as anyone with a progressive, debilitating, and eventually fatal disease could be. Huntington's was there, looming over her like a sword from one of those intricate Tarot cards she used to wield. But she was with her family now, and Jack, relating part of the conversation to Danny, told him that she considered that to be a blessing. She recounted to Jack all the horrible symptoms she will have once the disease progressed. "I couldn't do this on my own," she said. "My family will stay with me. Who else would do that?"

Danny threw the blue cap onto the back seat. Time to take the Yukon back to the FBI garage. The case was closed. And not a moment too soon: the leisure suit was really too hot. Did anyone truly spend any leisure hours in something like this?

_My family will stay with me. Who else would do that_?Maybe Agnes' family, Danny thought. Or Vivian's, to name one. But Danny had seen too much, been through too much in his life to know that "families" took all shapes and forms, and, sometimes, those you were connected to biologically were the last people on Earth you'd go to in a crisis. The last people who'd stick by you in your hour of need.

Until recently, Danny considered this unit to be his family. With Jack as a sort of a father figure, and Viv in a mothering role, and Sam and Martin a couple of contentious but lovable siblings.

And then he thought of all the things they weren't telling each other. Yep, pretty typical family. Dysfunctional, but then again, as he once read somewhere, any family with more than one person in it is dysfunctional.

It made him think of Allie, a 14-year-old they encountered on a case back in January. Allegra Stevens-Newberg. A pompous name for a pretty down-to-earth teenager with a refreshing world-view and a mess for a family. He realized he hasn't spoken to her in weeks. - yet another source of guilt. She hasn't called, to be sure, but then she never did call first. Afraid of imposing, perhaps, or trying to maintain her independence and determined to not ask for help. But Danny could tell she liked their talks during those few meetings they had since January. A cup of coffee for Danny, an ice-cream for Allie, and a talk, usually about nothing specific, certainly nothing pertaining to Allie's precarious family situation. He kept tabs on both impending Stevens-Newberg trials: mother's involuntary manslaughter one, and father's fraud and conspiracy. The charges have been filed, but the wheels of the Justice System rotated slowly, and both erring parents were still at home, in their rarified Upper East Side mention, driving each other and their daughters crazy.

Danny's concern was Allie, the youngest and the most affected by the events. In a moment of connection he had slipped Allie a piece of paper with his phone numbers, inviting her to call him anytime, whenever she needed anything, or even when she didn't. But it was he who ended up calling. Except, in all the excitement of a new relationship, he hadn't done so in more than a month.

Why was it always the bad things that moved us to act, he wondered. It was never the happiness or the triumph that prompted connections. In February he was elated, in March he was content, and April hit hard with Vivian's illness and some cases that spoke to his understanding of the transient nature of life. He thought of his brother, whom he hasn't heard from in months, either. He thought of Nicky - the kid nephew so suddenly discovered and so easily pushed to the back of his mind. And he thought of Allie. Keep your connections, Danny. They are your family, biological and not, pleasant and otherwise. Allie was a delight, his brother was far less so, but in the end, connecting with both took work. Question was whether Danny's faith in family was strong enough to put any work into it.

Danny shook his head. Questionable or not, he would at least call Allie. He owed her his time. He made the connection and she trusted him with it. What was that Agnes said again? _Family will stay with you. Who else would do that_? How about someone who, whether through guilt or through love, felt bound to you in a way that was not unlike the bond of a family? Danny took out his cell phone and dialed the number.

xxxxxx

"It's the 'High Priestess,' it stands for non-action, unconscious awareness, potential, or mystery."

Rebecca's fingers, long and deft, flipped the Tarot card over, making Samantha flinch. _What am I doing here?_ It wasn't the first time Sam asked herself that during the past hour. It was all still there: the anger, the mistrust, the slight shame of going to these lengths to find some order in her life. To Rebecca's credit, she didn't challenge Samantha's change of attitude toward psychic readings and Tarot cards. She did manage to make the agent somewhat comfortable with her no-nonsense attitude. Much like a psychologist, Rebecca went about her business as if it was a routine thing everyone did, and there was no question of dubiousness or discomfort.

The thing was, Sam was frightened. This woman managed somehow to tap into her concerns and doubts. She went as far as an impromptu reading in their last meeting, grabbing Sam's hands in an attempt to make her believe, and telling her - with that infuriating clear voice and unflinching stare - that Sam was troubled, that she was worried about a sick friend, and that she was going though a tough phase with a man whose name began with an 'M'."

That last one got to Sam. Anyone can have a sick friend, it could be put down to a wild guess on Rebecca's part. Same for the man trouble. What woman didn't have those? But the letter "M" struck a chord. How could she possibly know that? And if she was the real deal, if she somehow was able to see into people's psyches, if she really did have visions, then what did it all mean?

So, here was Sam, the nonbeliever of nonbelievers, sitting in the creepy shop, across the table from a woman she mistrusted profoundly, having - of all things - a psychic reading. _My God, the lengths our troubled minds will make us go to!_ It was all too unsettling. Take those Tarot cards, for instance. They were like a code, open to interpretation, and only meaningful if you chose to learn the language.

Oh, it was too vague, too insufferably open-ended! So, back to _what am I doing here?_ Still, Sam sat through it. If nothing else, it made her face the doubts, arrange her feelings, and, for once, contemplate what it was she was feeling.

"High Priestess? Isn't that a bit religious?"

Rebecca smiled a faraway smile. "Maybe. It's Medieval, for sure. But it doesn't have to have that connotation at all. Like I said, it stands for non-action. Or for potential or unconscious awareness. It's open to your interpretation."

"_Great_. I am not here to interpret things; I am here so you can interpret them _for _me." Sam felt irritated again.

"I don't do that," Rebecca's voice was low and smooth, her tone soothing. "I can show you your turmoil and your potential. And you can go with it or not. That's how it works. I can predict or uncover, but I don't comment."

Sam felt the beginning of a headache. "What's this one?" She pointed at the next card the woman flipped over.

"That's 'Justice.' It represents responsibility, decision, and cause and effect."

"Does that mean I have to decide something in the near future? Or take responsibility? Or what?"

"Do _you _feel you have to? It speaks to you, not to me. Are there things in your life that require clarification? Are you on a fence about something? The card tells you that there are things in your life that will require responsibility, a decision that will have an effect, but whether it's your decision to make or someone else's, that's not for me to tell you. I don't know you, I just see the images."

Sam sighed and nodded for Rebecca to continue.

"This one is 'The Moon'."

"It's pretty," said Sam for the sake of saying something, because the woman's face looked concerned.

"It may be, but the meaning is troubling. It refers to fear, to illusion or imagination, to bewilderment. It can be a good thing, but usually it's not, and I am sensing something from you that tells me your particular bewilderment and illusion is causing you to fear." She dropped her hushed professional voice and spoke directly, "You wouldn't be here otherwise. People don't come to me for clarity alone. They come because they are scared."

_And so far you are not helping_. Sam didn't say that, but Rebecca must have sensed it. She smiled sadly and moved on. "Here's a clearer one: 'Death' card."

Sam shivered: "Not alloying my fears here, I must say."

"Oh, 'Death' card doesn't mean that. Not literally, anyway. . . . Not in your case, I don't think. I sense worry from you, indecision, fear. I don't see a dark cloud, though, the way I did with Agnes. 'Death' card means ending, transition, or elimination. And it's a good card for you, because whatever decision you are afraid to make is going to be made soon, by you or by circumstances. 'Death,' in this instance, following the 'Moon,' will bring - if nothing else - clarity.

_Clarity would be good._ Sam thought about today, about her yet another fight with Martin. She didn't like herself much, not today and not lately. She was snappy, irrational, cruel even, for the reasons she was too scared to examine and which were not Martin's fault. She called him selfish, but it was transference really. Martin was rarely selfish, and if he didn't exactly understand what she wanted or needed, it was her own doing.

"You said earlier that you could see the letter 'M.' That I am having troubles with a man whose name starts with 'M.' Truth is, I am having troubles with two men whose names start with that letter. Can any of this suggest a course of action?" She nodded at the Tarot spread in front of her, half ruefully, as if mocking herself and the ridiculousness of her asking something like that.

Rebecca nodded thoughtfully, not surprised. "All it can do is suggest, really. Not the direct course of action, nothing as clear as that. But it can tell you which path not to take. I think it already has."

"Get off the fence, right?" Sam smiled in that same self-deprecating way.

"I can't advise you on how to solve your problems, but I can tell you that fence-sitters are never happy and seldom get anywhere. Making up your mind to pursue one course of action or another can be painful, and there's no guarantee in life that the course you pick is the best one. But what I sense, and what the cards seem to be saying, is that for you nothing could be as unhappy as your current indecision. So, in short, decide, whichever way."

Samantha nodded absentmindedly. Nothing so far was news to her. She could have told all of it before she walked into this shop. But she did feel clearer, as if having Rebecca and the dubious deck of cards confirm what she already knew, was making it easier to deal. Maybe that's why people went to these places: for reinforcements.

"Here's an interesting one: 'Page of Cups.' That's an action card, one that gives directions. You wanted directions, right? It tells you to be emotional, intuitive, intimate, and loving."

"Really? Does it tell me to whom I should be that?" Sam was back to her sarcastic tone. Rebecca ignored it and answered the question:

"Whomever you chose. Don't you see? The outcome of the choice is not important, because, in your heart of hearts, you already made it. You know it, you are just afraid to act on it. What the cards tell you is to chuck the fear and start acting. Be emotional. I sense that's a problem for you, at least outwardly. Be intuitive - you know how to do that, you just don't trust yourself enough to listen. Be intimate. In other words, don't disguise your feelings as something else: talk them out. Tell people how you feel. I'm guessing, it'll make it easier for you and all the 'Ms' in your life. Clarity over indecisions. Intimacy over fear. Love over safety. . . . That's what I'm getting and that's what the cards seem to be telling. But, ultimately, it's up to you."

Sam chuckled: "You say it like it's easy."

"It isn't. And people wouldn't need me if it were. Like I said, I can't carry you to your destination, I can only give directions. And you can take them or find your own way. But you wouldn't have conquered your mistrust and come to me if you were able to find your own way, right?"

"Sadly, yes." Sam shrugged, acknowledging this, but with less bitterness than before. "Or, rather, I think I know the way, but I don't particularly like it. . . . I guess what I was hoping for was for you to tell me, to reassure me that my way would lead me to the right place, the right decision, and that no one will get hurt."

Rebecca laughed suddenly. "You don't ask for much, do you? I cannot possibly reassure you of anything of the sort. I _can_ tell you, from what little you hinted at, that someone _will_ definitely get hurt, and that there is no possible way of knowing if your decision is the right one or not. Not even with all my powers. I can also tell you that you absolutely _should _follow that decision, because the way things are now _everyone_ is hurt. If you know what I mean."

"I do." Sam got up, ready to leave. "You helped, you know," she said it like a question, as if surprised. Rebecca answered with a smile.

Sam walked toward the door and stopped. On a whim she turned around and came back to the table. She extended her hand and picked up a card on the top of the deck, turning it over.

"The 'Hanged Man'," said Rebecca, her voice careful and controlled. "Letting go, reversal, suspension, sacrifice."

Sam laughed dryly. "I knew it, and I am not even psychic." She wrapped her coat collar tightly around her throat, once again heading for the door.

"I can give you this: don't worry about your sick friend." Rebecca's voice caught up with her, "I sense a good outcome."

Samantha pushed the door to go out. She was worried, and she was still unclear, but, perversely, she felt better than she did in weeks.


	4. Chapter 4

**The Cruellest Month**

_April is the cruellest month, breeding_

_Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing_

_Memory and desire, stirring_

_Dull roots with spring rain._

—T.S. Eliot "The Waste Land"

**Summary: **Several days in April. From all perspectives. "Transitions" are happening, "second sight" is needed, and "bogey man" is everyone's inner turmoil.

**Disclaimer:** If they were mine, I wouldn't do this to them! I am only borrowing the guys for a while to be returned unharmed, dry-cleaned, and, hopefully, happier!

**Author's Note.** I owe tons of gratitude to all people who reviewed: Anmodo, wItHouT a tRacE fReAk, NightMage, Mariel3, jtsideout389, jjbird, SpyMaster. Thank you for your kindness and inspiration.

wItHouT a tRacE fReAk: Two men with names beginning with "M" are Martin and Malone. It wasn't explained in "Second Sight," but when Rebecca told Sam she was having issues with "a man whose name begins with the letter 'M'," I thought, "which one?" So I incorporated it.

JackofSpade: You are welcome. Would it destroy the impact of the lesson if I confessed that I know nothing whatsoever about Tarot Cards and/or psychics? Internet is a wondrous place for research. LOL.

anmodo: I am so sorry, but I gratefully accept the position of your "drug dealer." LOL.

xxxxxx

Jack's mood this morning could have best been described as foul. Not the dull depression that accosted him with alarming regularity in the past months. Not the headachy weight of exhaustion he couldn't seem to shake no matter what the remedies. Not the mild irritation of so many mornings, when the sight and sound of people around him going about their seemingly busy and happy lives made him feel deflated and lost. No, this morning's mood was set on "pitch black," when dullness of depression would have been a welcome guest, a headache would have meant he was still capable of feeling something, and irritation with random people would have spelled normality.

Nothing was normal in his life. He wanted to spend the weekend in Chicago with his daughters, but Maria took them to her sister's instead. "They want to go with me, they've been looking forward to seeing their cousins. You can have them next weekend, Jack. I don't see what the big problem is!"

Like hell she didn't. She wasn't married to Jack for 13 years for nothing. She knew darn well how difficult - sometimes impossible - it was for him to arrange those weekends away, how many things had to come together for him to hop a plane and be there Saturday noon to snatch a day-and-a-half with his girls. To cram into that pitifully short time all the conversations, all the listening, all the longing he stored up for half a month. She had to have known what it would take for Jack to go and unpick all the careful arrangements for this weekend, and then try and put together all the elements for the next one. She absolutely knew that he didn't work 9 to 5, 5 days a week.

The maddening thing was that he didn't even believe it represented any kind of a payback on Maria's part: this casual destruction of his plans. No more than his girls' desire to go visiting with their cousins instead of spending time with dad meant they were punishing him. The depressing thought was that he has become irrelevant. To all of them. They have gotten used - in a frighteningly short time - to him not being there. Truth be told, it wasn't as if he was around a lot when they all lived under the same roof, in the same city. Now, little by little, it became a habit: phone conversations instead of visits, an easily postponed weekend instead of anxious waiting, a casual e-mail here and there instead of a serious letter. And now this. They were doing fine. They were moving on without him, and he wasn't surviving well at all.

Hanna has long ago become a mystery, almost a stranger. Her writings scared him. Their depth and maturity made him feel as if he missed an entire growth of a person. And when did she become such an acute observer? She was on speaking terms with him again, after avoiding his calls for months and only grudgingly going on all those fun Chicago outings Jack worked so hard to contrive. But now she was over it. Or maybe she just accepted the situation and gradually stopped caring. All in all, he preferred her silences and pointed glares to the cheery indifference.

Kate was still enthusiastic, bubbling a mile a minute on the phone, telling him all the minute happenings in their lives. She still gripped his hand tight when he came over, still went on tippy-toes trying to look him in the eyes, still smiled that megawatt smile of hers. He cherished this, like a treasure that he knew will be taken from him some day. And judging by Kate's easy acquiescence to the new weekend arrangements, this day was closer than he thought.

If the contentious conversation with Maria last night wasn't enough to kill his mood, Jack was still unable to sleep. The pills Dr. Harris gave him weren't exactly working. That is, they would knock him out right on schedule, but then, in the middle of the night, they'd quit, leaving him wide awake and more tired than ever. When he did sleep, he had dreams. Not always of a nightmarish kind, but they often seemed to visit the worst possible recesses of his mind. He saw his mother, cheerful and lively, the way she never really were in life. He saw his father, energetic and vaguely ominous, and sometimes Jack's heart would fill with love for the old man, and other times, it would cry out for revenge. Revenge for what, exactly? Other unwelcome dreams brought past cases, long forgotten and seemingly resolved. Or worse: unresolved ones, the kind that marked him like scars for the rest of his life, reminding him of pain and failure.

Then he would awake and lie there on his narrow couch for hours, trying to decide whether to take another pill and bring on more nightmares, or stay like this, fighting his restless brain that conjured up images and thoughts worse than any nightmare he could possibly have.

The usually calming influence of his office didn't do the job today. The new case that landed on his desk had a lot to do with it: a 13-year-old girl, missing form a small town - the kind where nothing bad is ever supposed to happen. For Jack, it was a nasty flashback to an earlier case, where two girls went missing in just such a town, and one of them didn't survive. It always hit harder when children were involved. It was doubly so for him today, coming on the heels of his contemplation of a lost weekend with his own little girls.

Not improving Jack's mood was the sight of Martin and Sam locked in what looked like a deep and absorbing conversation. Something was brewing with those two, Jack could tell, but his powers of discernment where Sam was concerned were gone, and he could only watch in bewilderment and irritation. They didn't look happy, he could tell this much, and a small part of him - the part that simply didn't accept the finality of losing Sam - was glad. The bigger, saner part was both ashamed and annoyed. Annoyed at himself for still hanging on to a ghost. Annoyed with the two of them for not keeping it - whatever it was - out of the office. Annoyed at his own annoyance.

"This is Daisy Thorpe," he placed the photo of the missing girl on the table between his two agents, effectively ending their private conversation.

"I'll call you from the car and give you the details," Jack addressed Martin with that clipped voice that indicated his stormy mood. "Sam, I need you to come with me. We're going to head upstate."

She followed him out of the room, slower than usual, with a parting glance at Martin, and this final exchange irritated Jack even more. "I don't know what's going on with you two, but I want you to keep it out of the office." He didn't look back to see the hurt and bewilderment in her eyes.

xxxxxx

The silence in the car was palpable. Jack drove with determination and focus, not saying a word - perhaps ashamed of his earlier outburst, or perhaps still angry.

Sam, on the other hand, was definitely fuming at Jack. "Keep it out of the office?" She just lost her relationship trying too damn hard to do that very thing - keep it out of the office - thank you very much! And where did he get off lecturing her on office romance policies! Coming from Jack it was almost funny. Almost. If only she felt like laughing.

She was angry at Martin, as well. Sam felt like she finally made an effort, and having that effort thrown back in her face was more than she could stand at the moment. Sure, she may have dragged her heels, but shouldn't a considerate boyfriend allow her the luxury of time? What was it he said? "I'm not interested in waiting around while you figure out your problems." And there she was foolish enough to think that they shared their problems. As a couple!

She was doubly angry at Rebecca and her "get off the fence" wisdom. What did this woman really know or understand? She had some dubious visions, flipped some cards, made a few cryptic pronouncements, and Samantha - the rational, skeptical, reasonable Samantha - have fallen for this! "You've already made your choice," Rebecca said. Damn right, but why didn't the cards predict that her choices would be rendered irrelevant, because everyone else in her life has apparently made theirs?

Martin has made a decision to dump her. He has apparently had enough. Sam sensed that, once the anger would dissipate, she could probably see that she did put him through the ringer, and that he probably had the grounds for his decision.

She could also see that the time will come when she would be able to look at Jack and not blame him for all the emotional turmoil she has gone through in the past several years. Meanwhile, she was fighting mad, and not in the small degree at herself.

When did it all start, really? When did the relationship with Martin - the one that she ventured into of her own accord and the one she had such hopes of - became so conflicted and difficult? It didn't start out like that. It grew out of genuine respect, friendship, and some basic human attraction. She found herself caring. And what could have been more logical than to embrace Martin at the very time that Jack was leaving for Chicago? It was the end of the chapter, of an era for both of them. And the beginning of new possibilities.

Sam sighed as she realized that the very next week, when she found herself listening with surprise to Jack's voice on the phone explaining that he wasn't moving to Chicago after all, and instead getting a divorce and staying with the Unit, was the moment when that new possibility became somehow irrevocably tainted by the this turn of events.

If she were a stronger person, she would have stopped seeing Martin then and there. But she liked seeing him, she liked the safety and the warmth of his presence, and she liked deluding herself that this time really was different, that she wouldn't sabotage this for a change. But deluding yourself is dangerous, and she didn't need Tarot cards to tell her that.

Sam concentrated on the view outside for a while. It was nice: the Spring was here, more evident on the upstate greenery than in New York City stone, freshly attired trees reaching up to the sun, celebrating renewal. She stole a glance at Jack, her anger somewhat cooler.

Was it really anyone's fault but her own, the way things have turned out? What was it that she'd expected, from either of them? The moment Jack announced his departure for Chicago, she'd let out a breath she didn't realize she was holding. For more than two years she was waiting for something from this man, without even acknowledging it to herself. Waiting for him to settle whatever unfinished business he had with his wife. Waiting for him to realize that he didn't really want to be married to that woman anymore. Waiting for some sign that they still had a chance.

She cried about the finality of it - the finality that she didn't accept even after he ended their affair, finality that seemed lessen when he separated from his wife soon after, finality that didn't convince her even when he reunited with Maria again.

She accepted it, however, when he quit the Unit to go to Chicago. That was as final as it got. And with those tears, a feeling of relief came in. She was truly free now: free to pursue other feelings, free to try and be happy, free from futile hopes and impossible dreams. With that came Martin - clear-eyed, open, devoted, and infinitely available. And they had a very good week before it all crumbled.

Maybe it was the fact that Jack ended it with her. Maybe they had feelings that had never gotten to be played out. Or, at least, maybe Sam did. Perhaps that was why she couldn't just let go.

What was she hoping for when Jack announced his return? That with his divorce the aborted relationship of three years prior will simply reestablish itself? That he would tell her he always loved her and now they can be together? And when it didn't happen she felt disappointed and angry? How naive, and how uncharacteristic of her! She wasn't that woman: that pathetic type hopelessly in love with her boss, having no life, no hopes, and no interests, just hanging around him like a kicked puppy begging for a caress! God, what a cliche! She was never that! She would never _be_ that. She was strong, fiercely independent, and she could have a life that didn't include Jack Malone and be, if not ecstatically happy, then at least content.

Was that it? Was that why things didn't work out with Martin? Because she was so hell-bent on proving something - to herself, at least - that the real relationship got swallowed in the attempt? Was she trying too hard or not enough? Or was it because, while trying to prove she didn't need Jack, she kept him constantly in the equation, like an invisible third party setting camp between her and Martin? And, God forbid, was it always going to be like that for her? Was she doomed?

Sam laughed unexpectedly, startling Jack. He turned to her, question in his eyes that he didn't ask. She shook her head: "nothing." She was laughing, though, at the disproportionate drama of it, at the Tarot Card-induced fatalism, and the absurdity of her, Samantha Spade, being now dumped by two men she worked with. It was all really funny, if one chose to look at it that way. And she chose to look at it that way. She may not have had a say in the termination of either of those relationships, but she would be damned if she spend anther three years contemplating and dissecting them to meaningless shreds.

They had a little girl to find. Personal dramas could wait, and, hopefully, go away.

xxxxxxx

"I am not keeping you away from work, am I?" Allie looked up anxiously, "'cause I don't want you to get in trouble and then you might not want to see me again."

"Relax, I have the morning off. I am due at the office at noon." Danny smiled reassuringly.

They were seated on the wooden steps of the South Pier, the entire magnificence of the Brooklyn Bridge as their vista. Allie wanted to go sit by the railing, take her shoes off, and dangle her feet, but Danny, in his protective mode, convinced her that shoe-less in chilly New York April was not a good look for her.

"So, what's the new case?" Earlier she made a funny short report about the "home front" - as she has taken to calling it - providing all the voices and doing such a spot-on imitation of her mother that Danny had to bite his lip in order to refrain from laughing too freely. He wasn't going to censure her, however. Humor was the way to deal for Allie, and Danny admired her for it.

They talked about Vivian, Allie genuinely saddened and concerned. She bought a little "Get Well Soon" card at the corner drug store, and was now decorating it with a drawing of an exotic bird. Danny leaned back on the steps, observing Allie's deft ball pen in motion.

"You know I'd rather not discuss ongoing cases. When it's over, and if it ends well, I'll tell you."

"Are you afraid I can't handle it? Seriously, I am tougher than I look."

"That's not hard: you look like a Swizzle stick. Are you eating right? Or regularly?"

Allie shrugged: "Look who's talking! You never eat, either. You won't even have ice-cream when I am having one. And who doesn't like ice-cream?"

Danny smiled a lazy smile.

"Fine, we won't discuss food, but you have to promise me you won't be skipping meals."

"Like I could! 'Antie Em' is practically force-feeding me!" Danny chuckled again: "Antie Em" was the nickname Allie and her sister Blake had secretly given to their new, extremely efficient, bossy, but kind housekeeper, who happened to resemble the "Wizard of Oz" character in appearance and in demeanor.

"OK, you won't talk about your cases, and I don't want to talk about food. Let's talk about something I'm actually interested in: your new girl. Is she your lover?"

Danny made a sound that was part snort and part surprised breath intake.

"Allie, seriously, 'lover'? Who uses this word anymore? It's positively quaint!"

"It's descriptive," she shrugged, unconcerned.

"So is 'girlfriend'."

"No, 'girlfriend isn't descriptive at all. And I see what you're doing: you are engaging me in a semantics debate and avoiding answering my question!"

"Semantics debates are good for your development, and I am not avoiding anything. I merely say that the term 'girlfriend' is a perfectly acceptable modern definition of a particular status, and you are fighting me just to be stubborn."

"Not at all. I think 'girlfriend' is a confusing term. I'll give you an example: Tim Bayley and I have been going out for more than two months now. I went to his Spring formal, and his is going to the Equestrian Club do with me next Saturday. I am officially his girlfriend and he is my boyfriend. But I am not his lover."

"I should fervently hope not," Danny drew his brows together in mock warning. "And your argument, while perfectly valid for a pair of 14-year-olds, doesn't carry the same weight for adults. When an adult introduces someone as his 'girlfriend,' the fact that they are lovers is inherently assumed in the definition."

"I don't see why it should. Lots of adults don't do it before marriage. Religious people, you know, or simply cautious. They can date, be in love, go places together, even share living quarters, but they aren't lovers in the simplest sense of the word. Now, if an adult introduces someone as his 'wife,' then yes, that would be legitimately included in the definition. But I still say 'girlfriend' is a much broader term. Oh, and by the way, Tim is 16, not 14." Allie announced it with pride.

"OK, I want to meet this Tim. I think I need to have this conversation with him, not with you. To reiterate and clarify the very important limitations of the word 'girlfriend.' And to show him my badge and my gun, just to impress the point!"

Allie laughed. "No need. He's aware I know some FBI agents and he is already suitably scared. I don't think he'll try anything, but, just in case, I am telling him all about this conversation."

They sat together in companionable silence for a while. Danny came to appreciate those silences. If you could be comfortably quiet with someone, this person was a friend, a kindred spirit. If you needed to fill the air with small talk, then, no matter how long the acquaintance, it would never be more than that.

Allie finished her bird, which now occupied almost all the white space inside the card. She wrote well wishes on the wings, making the lines follow the edges of the bird's feathers. It looked detailed, intricate, and exotic. The girl lifted her head and looked up at Danny.

"You never answered the question, though. I was right, you did avoid it!" But her smile was friendly, not challenging. "_Is _she your lover?"

Danny smiled back. "She is my everything."


	5. Chapter 5

**The Cruellest Month**

_April is the cruellest month, breeding_

_Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing_

_Memory and desire, stirring_

_Dull roots with spring rain._

—T.S. Eliot "The Waste Land"

**Summary: **Several days in April. From all perspectives. "Transitions" are happening, "second sight" is needed, and "bogey man" is everyone's inner turmoil.

**Disclaimer:** If they were mine, I wouldn't do this to them! I am only borrowing the guys for a while to be returned unharmed, dry-cleaned, and, hopefully, happier!

**A/N: **First of all, I want to thank each and every person who reviewed my story. You, all of you, inspire me, make me go on, and provide much-needed reason for my effort. You guys, quite simply, rock!

Second of all, I apologize for the delay in posting this last and final chapter. The crazy whirligig of chaos that I now call "my life" has prevented me from writing much of anything in the past several weeks. I appreciate your patience.

xxxxxx

Jack relaxed his shoulders and rested his head on the back of his car seat. From this vantage point, he could observe Sam and Daisy Thorpe sitting on the bus stop bench some distance away. It didn't look like they were talking. Instead, the girl sat with her head low, arms crossed in a defensive gesture, less strung out now than when they found her, but more saddened and drained. Sam didn't engage her, she didn't put a hand on her shoulder or her arm, but somehow Jack could see that her silent presence was comforting to Daisy.

As much as anyone's presence could be comforting to a frightened 13-year-old who just attempted to run away, because her father tried to molest her and then killed the only friend she had. Maybe "comfort" was the wrong word, but he could see Daisy's stance relax, her head move in that slow, rapid motion that indicated the beginning of a long and ultimately cathartic cry.

Jack was glad it fell to Sam to be there and talk the girl through the horror that just became her life. It wasn't that he didn't feel up to it, but, all things considered, Sam was in a much better position to understand and to guide. She once told him of the time she herself ran away from home at the age of 16. Not that 16-year-old Sam's predicament was as troubling as Daisy's, but there was a lonely bus stop in her past, and with it, a uniquely pertinent perspective. Sam's mother came after her and picked her up, and the mere fact that she cared to do that became enough for young Sam to never attempt running away again.

But that was about alienation. This was different. This was a horrific, tangible problem for a very young girl to encounter, and it didn't matter that in her apprehension and anger Daisy attributed to her suddenly menacing father all the sins this little town possessed. Right or wrong, the events proved that she had more to fear than anyone realized, and Jack felt his throat constrict in helpless fury. Anyone hurting children didn't deserve to live. Anyone hurting their own children was so far beyond Jack's comprehension, it made him feel physically ill. Like that time two years ago, on the dark, wet highway road, after they found Graham Spaulding's latest victim.

Jack shoved that particular memory back into his subconscious, concentrating instead on Matt Thorpe. What was it the man said in his defense? "It only happened once. One time. . . . I don't know what came over me." And Jack's own visceral reaction to the pathetic reasoning: once? As if once didn't count! As if the number somehow justified anything. Once was once too many times in some cases, and this was definitely the case. The man actually looked at Jack with appeal in his eyes, as if asking for understanding. Why was it that every garden variety pedophile thought himself entitled to understanding? As if they considered Jack capable of accessing the emotional level they operated on. That appeal made Jack see red more than anything else Thorpe said or did. The assumption that, as a psychologist or a father, he would somehow be able to tap the line of reasoning declaring it OK to look at your child in any kind of sexual way. That it all came under the lofty heading of "love."

Jack grounded his teeth. Somehow, it wasn't enough to call the man a "sick bastard" and lock him up. The "sick bastard" bit went without saying, and Jack felt suddenly relieved. Whatever his faults as a father - and they were apparent, if he was honest - Jack could at least exonerate himself from this particular affliction. He hoped his daughters would grow into amazing women some day, but he could not imagine ever thinking of them as anything but his little nuggets, with their dark eyes like giant cups of coffee, looking to him in complete and utter trust.

Trust - a big issue among people on any given day, but this particular case seemed to be all about that: trust children place in their fathers; trust in law enforcement professionals to do their job unencumbered by bias and personal vendettas; trust in the inherent innocence of someone until proven otherwise; trust in parental instincts. Trust that, in this day and age, a lynch mob mentality could not prevail. That in a town such as this, a kid can grow up without fear of the usual horrors that await them in larger, more perilous cities. That a childhood would not be terminated too soon or even fatally by base compulsions, hatred, or the adults' refusal to pay attention. Especially if these things came from the inside of a family - the ultimate place of trust.

His attention drifted back to the two figures. Sam's head was turned toward the girl, her profile soft and distinct. As usual, on those rare occasions that he allowed himself to watch her in peace, without it being obvious or uncomfortable, Jack was struck anew by how beautiful she was. He's gotten used to her beauty, to the soft gleam of her hair, to the steep curve of her upper lip, to the unexpected slant of her eyes. But every now and then, he would be caught afresh by her, as if she suddenly came into focus after existing as a blur somewhere on the periphery of his vision. Here was an issue of trust: had he somehow violated her belief in him? Did she not trust him anymore or was she just humoring him as a boss? Was the fact that she felt the need to hide her thing with Martin a testament to her lack of trust in Jack or in her own faith in that relationship? Not that he felt he any longer merited the trust, but he liked to have it all the same.

Jack sighed and closed his eyes for a moment. So many things in his life needed repair, so many relationships were frayed or broken. His girls, his father, Sam, even Vivian and Danny, who, Jack admitted, weren't confiding in him anymore, either. Part of it was circumstances, and part - his own fault.

It started to drizzle in that slow, indecisive way a rain sometimes begins. A few tentative drops landed on the windshield. Jack shivered and turned the heat up in the car. This was a very cold April, the coldest he could remember. Thank God it was almost over. The month had been draining: emotionally, physically, mentally. May was just around the corner, though, and was bound to be better, with its fresh energy, its promise, and its warmth. He had a lot of work to do.

xxxx

Sam extended her hand, palm up, and let a few raindrops land on it. It was definitely going to pour soon. But she didn't feel like hurrying Daisy off this bench and into uncertain future and unavoidable confrontations. They could sit here a few more minutes and pretend that the world made sense.

She could feel Jack watching them, but it didn't bother her the way it might have done this morning. The events of this day, the very real concern for this lost girl, have driven all personal melodrama out of her mind. The emotional roller-coaster she's been riding lately suddenly felt trivial. Here was someone with dilemmas far less glamorous and a lot more tragic. Dilemmas that had no comfortable solutions.

Daisy will have to go back to her mother, who, oblivious and defensive, allowed things to happen that should never have happened. She would have to deal with the fact that her father would be spending a long time in jail, and the fact that she actually wished it to be longer than that. The one person who believed her and tried to help was dead. And Sam could only guess what all of this would do for the girl's future chances of ever trusting anyone, making friends, or allowing people to get close.

She reminded Sam of herself at that age: restless, confused, scared, feeling as if she didn't belong anywhere. Then again, this was probably true of any teenager at one time or another. Accept this teenager's problems weren't hormone-induced or self-inflicted, and there wasn't a thing - not really - that Sam could say or do to make any of it better.

She turned her head and looked at Jack in the car, his face slightly distorted by the windshield reflections and raindrops. His eyes were closed and he appeared asleep, but Sam knew that he wasn't. He was trying to be unobtrusive and succeeded to the degree that both Sam and Daisy have forgotten for a while that he was there at all. There were a million things they should be doing right now, starting with phone calls, arrangements, and paperwork. Not to mention, they had a long drive back to the City. But Jack didn't hurry them, and Sam felt grateful.

A wave of tenderness passed over her. Jack could be so sweet sometimes it broke your heart. And he looked almost ragged - now that she was paying attention - ravaged by exhaustion, by his family troubles, and by this job. She wondered if he'd slept and when he ate last. She also wandered perversely if Martin was well. None of these conflicting emotions felt irreconcilable anymore. Sam looked at Jack and wanted to stroke his rumpled hair and tell him that everything would be all right. That things had a way of sorting themselves out. And she wanted to get back to the office and talk to Martin. She felt in a much better condition to do this now than she was in the morning. She certainly understood him better. And maybe they could have closure, the real kind that she never got with Jack.

xxxx

Vivian washed out the cups and stacked them on the high rack above the sink. It wasn't necessary that she accomplish this: Reggie already offered to do the dishes, trying in his own way to atone for getting in trouble today. But she wanted to do it herself. The routine and the banality of kitchen duties calmed her down and stabilized her thoughts. Besides, there wasn't much to do here. The kitchen was bright and spotless, the crumb cake she rolled out for the guest earlier remained untouched - Danny not being the cake type and not even touching the tea she poured into a nice cup for him. He didn't stay long, concerned about tiring her out. She smiled her appreciation, relieved that she didn't have to explain anything. He somehow knew that she wasn't up for much company. If worry and apprehension didn't wear her down, those heavy-duty pre-op meds certainly did.

Viv dried her hands and picked up the "Get Well" card Danny left for her on the table. She opened it and smiled, moved by the message and impressed by the intricate image drawn inside. A bird. A phoenix, to be exact. Interesting and well-educated girl, Allie. A phoenix was indeed a good imagery to inspire a dangerously ill person.

Danny had been funny and airy, and without that forced cheerfulness that people sometimes adopt while visiting the sick. He didn't try to make it seem as if everything was OK, but he didn't stress the direness of the situation, either. Danny had a light touch with people, especially people in distress: his friendship with Allie was a good example of that.

Vivian noticed the dark circles under his eyes and she wondered if that was because he worried about her, or because the cases were tough lately, or, maybe, because something wasn't going right with that new girl of his.

Viv, as much as she didn't want him to worry about her condition, hoped still more that it wasn't the last one. He had seemed so happy in the past months, as if walking on air. And if he didn't tell her anything, she knew it wasn't because he didn't trust her, but because he had that superstitious streak in him that precluded talking about the good in his life for fear of jinxing it. Goodness knows, the boy had enough bad things happen to make him be protective of the fortunate ones.

She wished she could say something, had some wisdom to impart. But it wasn't what they did, not even in the best of times, and, anyway, just sitting there, toying with a cup of pale tea and talking about anything other than what's going on, was all the comfort both of them needed today. Tomorrow it may be different, but this evening Vivian felt her spirits rise.

Jack called an hour ago, keeping her informed on the case, even if she wasn't working it with them. It was good news, all things considered: the girl was found safe, and the bad guy was going to prison. Jack kept the details to the minimum, and she appreciated his editorial thinking. She knew it was selfish, but relatively good news was all she could handle right now, and the murkier particulars could wait for the time when she would be well again, at work, and reading the reports.

Vivian chuckled: it was amazing how good you can make yourself feel by censoring the incoming information. There was a reason why she never watched or read news anymore. Who needed the aggravation? Give her the Sports and the Travel sections, and the other parts of the _Times _may as well not exist. People laugh at an ostrich, but they have to acknowledge the healthy self-preservation instinct of the bird.

Speaking of birds, she picked up Allie's card and put it on the fridge door, alongside Reggie's latest school essay and a funny cartoon clipped from the _New Yorker_. The phoenix's eye looked at her sideways, unflinching, perceptive, and soothing. "It's going to be all right," it seemed to say, "you are going to be well." Vivan's eyes traveled to a small calendar stuck to the other side of the fridge. April was almost over. Good riddance! It hasn't brought much joy. May would be when she would get rid of this problem once and for all. May was going to be the happy month.

xxxx

They sat at a small table outside of their favorite haunt, "Casa Santo Domingo" - a tiny ethnic neighborhood restaurant run by the kind, motherly Dominican woman called by her patrons simply Mama Arevalo. She was indeed a mother by title and by right, mothering Danny, and now Audrey, bullying them into eating and wearing warmer clothes, and berating them for not gaining weight at the desired rate.

Both Danny and Audrey loved it here. It felt comfortable and familiar, it had character, the food was wonderful, and the service personal and genuine. It was still way too cold to sit outside, though, and Mama Arevalo did not let them do this without a fight.

"You catch cold! You no have sense!" and seeing their amused but unrelenting smiles, with a sigh of defeat: "I make you hot tamales - they keep you warm." Never mind that they didn't order any tamales. The steaming pot of coffee was already on the table, and the Creole Meringue cake they also didn't order magically appeared on a large plate between them. Danny chuckled: by maneuvering, by bluff, or by sheer force of will, Mama Arevalo was determined to feed them into what she considered a "healthy" condition.

It was nice, though, being taken care of, fussed over, and worried about like that. Especially when they didn't really need it. It was nice to be here, to watch the late evening crowd rush by toward their respective homes from work. The coffee smelled like heaven, and the Meringue added a nice touch of yellow to the red checkered table cloth color scheme.

"How's Vivian?" Audrey's thin, long-fingered hand was casting an interesting shadow on the tabletop, and Danny traced in with his own finger.

"She is holding up well. Better than the rest of us, I should say, but that could be because she is on drugs," he smiled a slightly van smile. "Viv is an amazing person. I wish I had a quarter of her resilience, her strength, or her wisdom."

"Danny, admittedly, I don't know her, but I know you, and you have all these in spades." Audrey looked him in the eyes and then laughed. "Well, the wisdom part not so much: here we are sitting on the cold evening outside, and it's going to rain soon. But the other stuff - I don't think I have ever met anyone more resilient or stronger than you."

"You should get out more," he gave her a wink. "On the second thought, no you shouldn't! . . . I love it that you think these things of me, and I know you are being sincere, but it makes me petrified of disappointing you one day."

"You won't. Or I'll get over it. I am not saying this to put the pressure on you. I'm just saying you should give yourself a break once in a while. I am certain Vivian would tell you the same thing. You are not a bad person, Danny, so stop punishing yourself. Especially for things you have no control over. That's the wisdom you could use." The message was somewhat harsh, but the tone was gentle, and Danny wrapped his arm around Audrey's shoulder in silent acquiescence.

"OK, I will try to stay away from gratuitous guilt, but it's hard for a Catholic, even a lapsed one. By now it's second nature. I feel guilty for not paying enough attention to those closest to me. I feel guilty for surviving. I feel guilty for my luck. I feel guilty for being happy and for feeling guilt about this happiness, for staying sober and for still wanting a drink every morning, for not wanting to see my brother and for missing him. I can find more ways to feel guilty than an altar boy in a Sunday morning confessional. I've honed my skills through years and years of AA meetings."

"Yes, you are a study in guild, Taylor. I would be tempted to write a story about you, if I wasn't so sure that Albert Camus hasn't written it all already. . . ."

"Are you actually mocking my pain?" Danny looked at her in pretend shock.

"I am mocking your pain, your guilt, and your self-abuse. I would also mock your tie, but, really, how much ridicule can a guy take in one evening?" Audrey laughed pulling on the offending article of clothing in order to loosen it. "I can't change how you feel about your choices and your luck," she added on a more serious note, "but I can keep reminding you of who you are."

"And who am I?"

"You are someone who makes 'loving thy neighbor' a much easier task." Audrey smiled at him mischievously.

"Oh, good, just see that you don't practice this particular tenet on our other neighbors." Danny knitted his brows in stern warning. "I still don't trust you with young Stevie Kauffman. Especially now that his parents are so preoccupied with his new baby-sister, and he is left to fend for himself."

"Yes, he does pedal his tricycle along the hallway with a lot more fierce energy these days. Poor kiddie: it must be confusing and upsetting at the age of 5 to be suddenly dislodged from the secure position of the center of his parents' universe."

"Must be pretty confusing and upsetting at any age. But you are not allowed to console him: those brooding 5-year-olds with hot bicycle wheels and abandonment issues are very, very dangerous types! Let him get his own obliging neighbor."

They both laughed. The rain started in earnest now, threatening to soak the striped canvas umbrella that sheltered their table.

"April's almost over." Audrey looked up at the patch of gray sky between the building wall and the umbrella edge. "Thing are bound to improve. You just wait and see."

The End.

**A/N: **I know I've been flogging the dead pony with that "end of a bad month" motif, but I keep thinking of canon, and how things went from bad to worse in May, what with Danny's brother, Jack's hallucinations, and Vivian's surgery apprehension, all culminating in that shooting, and I can't help but play off of this. They must have been looking forward to the end of troublesome April, only to run into the much worse May.


End file.
